Coping

Chapter 4

Wind ripped through the open widow, causing the curtains to billow. Sherlock woke with a start. The breeze had chilled him, so he got out of bed and felt his way over to the window, cursing inwardly as he stubbed his toe. His phone was on his bedside table, to which Sherlock made his way. He held down the middle button. "Siri, what time is it?" He asked quietly.

"It's 4:07," said the electronic voice. Redbeard stirred. Sherlock groaned. For a brief moment, he considered taking a walk, but decided against it. As much as he really couldn't stand his brother, he knew that if he wasn't "good," like Mycroft had made him promise to be, he wouldn't be able to go to Wilham's. Taking a walk at four in the morning hardly seemed like something bad, but Mummy might blow it into something worse.

Opening his door quietly, he made his way into the hallway, slowly and groggily headed for the bathroom. Halfway down the hall, he stopped. A soft voice was coming from Mycroft's bedroom.

"We can't let people know, though," he said. "You're the football captain and I'm head boy. How do you think that would go over in the school?" Silence. "You say that now, but honestly, darling, if Phillip Anderson found out, he'd report us for something much worse and we would be forced to switch rooms." Darling? Football captain? This must be... Greg Lestrade. Sherlock gagged, but continued listening. "Okay, well, it's four in the morning. I must get back to sleep." A pause. "Yes, I miss you too. Okay, yes. Goodbye." The phone clicked and hung up.

Sherlock used the restroom and then made his way back to his bedroom. At least now he had something on Mycroft.

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"We've come to a decision," Sherlock's mother said at breakfast. "You can go to Wilham's," she said, "under the condition that you allow Mycroft to check up on you every day." Sherlock stifled a groan, trying to not push his luck.

"Really?" Sherlock's father nodded, and then realized that Sherlock couldn't see what he was doing.

"Yes," his dad replied.

A moment of silence passed before Mycroft cleared his throat. "Until you learn to read Braille," he said, "We can provide you with a voice recorder for you're assignments."

"That won't be necessary. I'll learn it in a couple of hours," Sherlock cut in.

"A couple of hours? A bit slow, don't you think?"

"Says the boy who took four to learn French."

"Oh, please, I was seven years old-"

"Boys! Please," said their mother. "Stick to the subject, Myc."

"Mycroft," he corrected her, annoyed. Sherlock smirked. "Anyway, you're in every advanced class - the school put up a fight against that one. And we've found you a willing roommate. The poor boy hasn't met you yet, though..."

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock hissed. "Who is he?"

"John Hamish Watson. Straight A's, very clever for the common student. He currently resides in Kent, with his grandmother."

"Hm. Family issues?"

"They're dead. He and his sister grew up with said grandmother. Anyway, he seemed to be a good match. For a normal blind person, at least. For you... God knows." Mycroft rustled his papers and folded them.

"Does this John do extra-curricular activities?" Sherlock asked.

"Erm... Yes, he plays... football." Mycroft started to speak in an attempt to change the subject, when Sherlock cut in.

"Oh, with /Greg?/" He smirked.

"Greg Lestrade? Yes, obviously, seeing as he's the football captain," Mycroft had an edge to his voice.

"Isn't that your roommate, dear? How are you two getting on?" Their mother asked. Sherlock sniggered.

"Oh, I think they're getting on just fine," he said. "Couldn't be happier-"

"Sherlock, kindly /quit/ voicing your opinion."

"Mycroft, don't be rude. What is going on?"

"Well-"

"Nothing!" Mycroft said loudly, and then left from the table to empty his dishes into the sink. "Sherlock, outside now, please." Sherlock emptied his plate and took Redbeard to the backyard.

Mycroft stood very near him, and spoke quietly, but harshly. "How did you know?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please. Four-in-the-morning phone calls? You might try the texting method, next time."

"What were you doing up at that time?" He snapped, as Redbeard lay down in the grass.

"Using the restroom, brother dear." Mycroft didn't say anything, but Sherlock could almost feel his glower. "Don't worry," he said. "I'm not going to /tell/ anyone. It's not like I actually care."

"Well. Good. Then it's sett-"

"But, tell me one thing. I have a rough estimate, but how long have you two... Been together?" Sherlock asked.

After a moment, Mycroft spoke. "If you must know-"

"Oh, I must."

Mycroft suspired in pique. "If you must know, it was at the end of last year." Sherlock nodded. "Is that it then? May we continue this vacation without mentioning a word of this to our parents? Or anybody else?"

"Yes, yes, alright." Mycroft turned to leave, but of course, Sherlock didn't notice. "And, Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"I just... Thanks. For, er, getting me into Wilham's."

"Oh," he said, surprised at the unsuspected show of gratitude. "Yes, well. It was easy, as I am head boy-"

"Yes, alright. I've got it. Let's just... Go back inside." Mycroft left. "Redbeard," Sherlock called. "Here," the dog trotted over to Sherlock's side, and together they entered the house.